


Broken

by distantstarlight



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: All Roads Lead to Johnlock, Angst, Break Up, Do not post on another site, Heartache, Jealousy, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, POV Sherlock Holmes, Post-Season/Series 04, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Unhealthy Relationships, happy ending guaranteed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-15
Updated: 2019-11-15
Packaged: 2021-01-30 23:20:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21436345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/distantstarlight/pseuds/distantstarlight
Summary: Sherlock learns something he thought could never possibly be, but the evidence doesn't lie.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 22
Kudos: 219





	Broken

**Author's Note:**

> I made myself cry so if I made you cry too, let me know and I'll add your tears to my collection.

Sherlock watched from the sofa as John painstakingly tapped out a text. Every single character he sent off into the aether made him furious._ John was his! Why was he flirting online with some woman if _they_ were together? _Sherlock knew he was jealous, but didn’t he have the right, now? “Someone amazing?” His voice was bitter, and he knew that too.

John had the grace to flush, “No, but it doesn’t hurt to be polite. She’s a long-time fan. She’s interested in what we do.”

“An interested fan you talk with _numerous_ times a day and say goodnight to before you go to bed with me, and to whom you send a morning greeting after you leave me in that same bed.” John and Sherlock had finally become lovers and had spent the last three months feeling their way toward greater intimacy and commitment, or Sherlock had presumed. Clearly, he was wrong. “You can’t date us both, John. I deserve better than that.”

John flushed again, only this time he was angry, “I’m not _dating_ her, Sherlock. We just talk about my blog and cases.”

Sherlock knew _exactly_ what they talked about. He shamelessly read John’s texts and reviewed his blog posts hourly. So far, they had covered nearly every single case John had ever posted. Her texted cooing and praises made him physically ill with their saccharine inanity. Her name was Lisa, pronounced _Lie-saw_. It drove Sherlock mad with irritation that this fact was in his mind palace and that he couldn’t seem to expunge it. John was always going on about things Lisa said, laughing as he repeated her admirations, her questions, her every bleeding exclamation. She had invaded their entire life, it seemed, and it was making Sherlock crazy. “John, you spend more time chatting with her than you do speaking to me. What’s coming next, meeting for coffee, or going to the cinema, or luncheons?”

Sherlock was aghast when John flushed a second time, his entire body tensing in a head to toe cringe that he tried to pretend wasn’t happening, “Nothing wrong with any of those things. Friends do that stuff all the time.” He sounded as if he didn’t even believe himself.

“You’ve already done it. You’ve gone on dates with her.” Sherlock’s voice was hollow because his heart was hollow. He hadn’t even _noticed_ that John was stepping out on him._ He wasn’t enough for John. John needed to seek extra from someone else because Sherlock, apparently, was not capable of keeping him satisfied._ “I see.”

“Sherlock, it’s not like that.” Perhaps, but the mixture of guilt and stubbornness on John’s face was loud and clear, “It’s nothing. There’s nothing like that happening.”

“Nothing except _secret_ meetings, _constant_ texting, and who knows _what_ else, certainly not _me_. I apparently am the _ignoramus_ who was foolish enough to believe that the person I was sleeping with was interested in being exclusive. Silly of me, I see that now. Completely irrational of me, in fact.” He knew he was being dramatic, but he didn’t care. _When was drama more warranted than at this very instant? _Sherlock stood and glared down at John who wasn’t making any effort to meet his angry gaze, “I suppose it’s my fault somehow? I caused this to happen _and it’s what I deserve_, is that it, John?”

John swallowed hard but then took a moment to text something, pressing send before answering. It broke Sherlock’s heart into even smaller pieces because even an argument about their relationship wasn’t important enough for John to stop texting Lisa. “You don’t own me, Sherlock. I can do what I like with my time, and be with other people if I want.”

Sherlock felt his heart shatter completely into dust, and all the fight left him. “Yes, you can, John. Yes. Do whatever you like with your time, _be_ with whomever you choose. It’s clear that what I might prefer is of no significance.” A gaping hole had appeared in front of Sherlock’s entire existence and he could feel the blackness of it drawing him in. _John was cheating on him. John had never planned on being faithful to him. John wanted to see other people._

John looked shocked, “Wait now, that’s not what I’m saying.”

Sherlock’s voice was soft, and almost trembling as he answered. “I’m not going to argue this with you, John. You are correct. I have no sway over your free time. You are entirely free to fill it with concerns that have nothing to do with me. I’m...I’m nothing to you, I see that.” Silence was his answer, and Sherlock couldn’t bear to look at John. “You _will not_ date us both, John. I won’t be put in that position. You say she’s a friend, but I say different. She’s not a friend. She’s an interloper, one that you are welcoming. I’m _not_ fighting for your attention, John Watson. If I cannot provide that which you seek, then I am going to end it with you before I become a cautionary tale about infidelity and broken trust.”

“You’re being a drama queen, and you’re over-reacting like you always do,” John said dismissively, “You need a snack and a nap.”

“I’m not a child, John!” Sherlock was outraged, _“Snacks_ and _naps_ aren’t going to change the fact that you are very blatantly cheating on me.” John was shaking his head dismissively, and rolling his eyes, “Yes, you are _cheating_, John. When you go out with Lestrade or Hooper, you just tell me. You don’t make secret assignations with them and then never mention it to me. How often have you seen this woman? How far has it gotten already? Have you had sex yet?”

John’s face was a mix of anger, disbelief, shame, outrage, and finally, blankness, “I’ve never cheated on you, Sherlock. You are being ridiculous. That you think I’d ever cheat on someone I’m with...”

“You were with Mary when you began flirting with Eurus,” Sherlock said flatly. “You have it in you, John, you’ve almost done it before when you were legally married. We are _not_ married, in fact, I can’t even call you my boyfriend, can I? You’ve never allowed it. No one really knows we’re together, do they? With the exception of Mrs Hudson and Mycroft, both of whom only learned of this by accident, does anyone we have in common even know that we’ve been sleeping together for the last ten weeks? Does Lisa?”

John was looking up at Sherlock, his mouth hanging open, “What has people _knowing_ about us got to do with anything?”

He didn’t fail to notice that John had failed to respond to the questions at hand, again, and was trying to redirect the conversation away from the tangible point. It made him furious, “Everything, I think. I can read your face, John. Maybe you haven’t _fucked_ Lisa _yet_, but you’ve done other things, haven’t you, things that you don’t want to admit have crossed a line between respectable friendship and ... something else?” Sherlock walked to the door and put his coat on, shrugging himself into it without even an ounce of flair. He wasn’t trying to make an impression, he just wanted to be somewhere that didn’t hurt him so much. This was worse than the night he’d come back to London in time to watch John begin to propose to Mary. Even after she’d shot Sherlock in the heart, John had chosen her. He kept choosing _other_ people, _any_ person, _all people_, well before he ever chose Sherlock. “It is painfully clear that I cannot trust you, John, not with my heart, and not in my bed. You’ve made your choice, once again, and I am just the fool who until today could not see it.”

Sherlock went downstairs and was further crushed when John made no effort to stop him. _It was over. They were over._ He quietly knocked on Mrs Hudson’s door, his hand shaking as he did so, “Sherlock? I heard raised voices. What is going on? Is it a client? Do I need to call the police?”

“No need, Mrs Hudson. I am leaving for a time. John will remain, and he may have a female companion joining him. Please, do me a favour and don’t let me know what is happening. I don’t want those images in my head. I’ll have Mycroft’s PA contact you regarding my expenses and possessions.”

“Sherlock, what is going on? Companion? _Leaving?_ I don’t understand.” Mrs Hudson looked as devastated as Sherlock felt.

“John has found someone else, some time ago, apparently,” he replied woodenly. “I’m going to stay with my family until I can deal with this a bit better.”

“Oh, _Sherlock_,” her eyes were full of tears, “Oh, my dear sweet boy.”

Sherlock left 221 B Baker Street with his coat and whatever was in his pockets. After several hours of walking, he used his mobile to make a single call, “Brother? I need a room for a while, is that alright?”

Mycroft obviously could tell that Sherlock was deeply upset because his tone was immediately solicitous and filled with concern, his normal sly teases completely absent, “Of course, brother mine. Where are you? I will send a car.”

Sherlock gave him the name of the street he was on but kept walking. There was a distinct lack of messages from John for the entire time. Mycroft had three homes in London; one that he lived in, one that his colleagues thought he lived in where he took important meetings, and a guesthouse for their parents when they came to Town. Sherlock a room in each of them, a space set aside permanently for him whenever he needed it.

He’d never thought to stay in any of them again, not after returning to the city after his long hiatus away, and especially after he and John became...nothing, apparently. Sherlock wasn’t someone John loved. Sherlock was just someone John had shagged. The detective knew that _he_ loved John intensely, but after today, he doubted that John returned that regard anymore, if he ever had. He very certainly had never said the words, it had all been implied, or so Sherlock had naively assumed. He’d almost said them, hundreds of times, but found his tongue too clumsy, or that he’d waited too long and the moments passed him by over and over again. He should have tried, at least once. Maybe, then, this wouldn’t have happened. For the first time in his life, Sherlock felt true doubt, and it was horrible.

Once he was locked inside his new bedroom, the tears came. He was ripped apart inside. _John had cheated on him. John preferred someone else. They weren’t a couple any longer if they ever had been_. Sherlock went over every moment of the last half-year obsessively. He doubted everything, questioned every single one of his perceptions. He’d gone terribly wrong somewhere and he urgently needed to discover what section of his operating system had malfunctioned. _How could he do the Work if his deductions were fallible? _

Sherlock began combing through his memories of what had been, at the time, the very happiest time of his entire life. _What had tipped the scales? What had triggered that first night of passionate lovemaking? What had made John decide to kiss Sherlock, to drag him upstairs and into bed?_ He’d made Sherlock breakfast the next morning, held his hand when they watched movies, cuddled with him. They continued to do the Work, better than ever, in fact. John had a two-day-a-week job at a new clinic, going in on Mondays and Tuesdays, and spending all his other days with Sherlock. _It all seemed like something John had wanted on his own but had it been? Had he just been pacifying Sherlock by giving in to their mutual base needs until someone more appropriate was available?_

A chime on his mobile alerted him that someone had posted something to John’s blog. Heart sinking with prescient dismay, Sherlock saw that a photo had been added to a comment thread beneath their latest case. It was a picture of Lisa and John sitting in _Angelo’s_ with a caption beneath saying, _World’s Only Consulting Fan_. John’s eyes were sparkling, and his arm was clutched tight about her shoulder so that their upper bodies were pressed together in order to fit into the shot. He was wearing the clothing he’d had on when Sherlock left 221 B Baker Street. _This photo was new! _Sherlock wanted to throw up. _John had not only begun dating the woman while he was with Sherlock, but he’d taken her to the restaurant that had meant so much to them both. This was what John was doing while Sherlock was weeping like a fool? _It was appalling.

There was a cascade of comments, his mobile bleeping every second or so until he finally muted the conversation. Bleakly, Sherlock read through them. Everyone including Lestrade and Harriet was asking who Lisa was, and where Sherlock was, and she was gleefully answering every single question with, “I’m just a very special friend of John’s.”

_Special friend_. Sherlock wanted to seethe but he wasn’t angry, he was miserable. His heart physically hurt, and he felt blank all over. Lisa was making her claim public, letting everyone know that Sherlock Holmes, the most observant man in the world, had not seen her coming. John hadn’t posted anything to follow up her comments or to deny her claims. Just as Sherlock left the blog, a text came through, “I forgive you for what you said. Stop being a git and come home. The sulking is getting old.”

Sherlock swallowed the lump in his throat. _John forgave him for what? What forgiveness did Sherlock require?_ None, from what he could see. He’d caught his partner cheating on him, and he was no longer at home at 221 B Baker Street. _He could never be, not when John wasn’t with him. Sherlock wasn’t _sulking_. He was in pain, _emotional_ pain, but John did not care._ Instead of answering him back, Sherlock sent a text to Mycroft, “If it’s not too much trouble, can you send someone to retrieve my violin, my skull, and perhaps some clothing from Baker Street?”

Sherlock wasn’t normally polite, normally he’d just tap out an order and expect Mycroft to make it happen. Right now, however, Mycroft was the only person Sherlock knew for a fact he could depend on. Mycroft and he had not always seen eye to eye, but his brother had always done his best to keep Sherlock hale and as happy as could be managed. It hadn’t been smooth, but Sherlock had learned that despite their many clashes, Mycroft was there for him, just as he would always be there for Mycroft. His phone rang, and for a wild moment, Sherlock thought John was ringing him. The caller ID disappointingly displayed Lestrade’s name, “Yes?”

“Sherlock, what the fuck is going on? I just saw John’s blog. Who is that woman?” The DI sounded as furious as Sherlock had ever heard him be.

“She’s John’s _special friend_, as she’s stated many times by now,” he answered, “John has been engaging in a relationship with her in secret for an undetermined amount of time. I only learned of it today. I have left John and am temporarily residing in one of Mycroft’s houses.”

“What?” Lestrade was obviously stunned, “He _what?”_ The line abruptly went dead, so Sherlock tossed his mobile onto the chair by his bed and stripped himself down. He felt dirty, inside and out, as if he’d been dipped in a pollutant. He needed to cleanse it off him, out of him. _His embraces with John had been no sacred union; they’d been mere physical relief to tide the soldier over until he could get what he preferred from someone else._

Sherlock threw up in the shower. _They’d had sex last night. He’d gone down on John. Had she? Was she doing so right now? Sherlock had thought the act had been beautiful, the noises he had pulled from John had been so intoxicating_. It had led to an impassioned embrace that he could still feel. He was tender and almost sore, even more so now that he’d been almost violent in his ablutions. Sherlock thought that John stifling his sounds with his hand had been arousing and lovely, but now he questioned it like he was questioning everything_. What had John been trying _not_ to say? Lisa’s name? Had John been thinking of her while Sherlock was on his knees in front of him? _

It made him throw up a second time. He felt sick right down to his toes. Ruthlessly, he turned up the hot water as far as it would go and washed fiercely everywhere until his skin was red and almost raw looking. He turned the shower off for a minute and dug around the cabinet beneath the sink until he located the enema kit that Mycroft had prudently placed there a short while after John and Sherlock got together, and used it to clean himself out, trying desperately to sanitize the awful feelings away. It didn’t work. Sherlock felt dirty, contaminated by the hands of a third party he had not consented to.

Mycroft found him on the bathroom floor hours later. Sherlock had managed to dress himself but once all his products and tools had been tucked away, he’d fallen to his knees and wept as he’d never done even as a child. He felt adrift because everything he’d believed about himself and John was so obviously wrong. _John had seemed so perfect for Sherlock, but clearly, Sherlock was not so perfect for John. Lisa was_. His brother helped him to his feet and ignored the tears that would not stop falling. Sherlock’s sobs were silent, but they wracked his body with tremors that made his abdomen ache and his thighs tremble. Silently, Sherlock was tucked under the covers of the soft bed that waited for him, and for the first time in decades, Mycroft combed tender fingers through his brother’s curls until Sherlock’s eyes closed and he managed to fall asleep.

The next morning, Sherlock checked his mobile. Mycroft had plugged it in, so he had plenty of battery to see the barrage of comments that had flooded John’s blog, most of them shocked and angry. He also saw that John had texted and phoned him numerous times in the night, each one becoming angrier and more demanding than the last. Sherlock read the last message, “Answer your fucking phone, you arse!”

Sherlock debated for several minutes before checking his voicemail. He had seventeen messages waiting for him. The first was from Lestrade, “Sherlock, I went over to yours, but John wasn’t answering the door. Mrs Hudson said he was out. He didn’t answer my calls or return my texts. Maybe that’s a good thing because when I do see him, I’m punching him right in the fucking nose so hard he’s going to have snot coming out of his fucking ears.” That was very heartening, and Sherlock was touched. The next one was from John, “I’ve texted you like a hundred times now, Sherlock, pick up your goddamned phone and talk to me! This is going too far, now!” Sherlock listened to John’s earlier messages, “Sherlock, stop ignoring your mobile. Answer my call!” and, “Sherlock, stop acting like a brat and reply to my texts, for fuck’s sake!”, and also, “You are such a fucking child! Grow up and act like a man. I’m going out to meet Lisa right now, and I expect you home when I’m through. You can’t just run away whenever you aren’t happy about something.”

Sherlock grew cold inside. _John was well and truly angry with him as if _Sherlock_ had _forced_ him to have a clandestine affair as if being caught in the act were _Sherlock’s_ fault instead of John’s! He boldly stated that he was going to date Lisa, and what, Sherlock was just supposed to accept it and go along?_ Sherlock scrolled through the texts and they were no better than the voicemails. John swore, insulted, belittled, and acted as _he_ were the hard-done party! He kept insisting that Sherlock return to the flat as if Sherlock would. _221 B Baker Street had been the home they’d shared together, but he wasn’t about to share a flat with John and his female lover!_ John had made his choice, and he most definitely had not picked Sherlock...again. Sherlock deleted everything without listening to the last voicemails or reading all the texts. _What was the point?_

There was a fresh flurry of texts at 2 PM which he deleted unread. At 3, the bell on the front door rang. It was Anthea, and she was holding his violin case and skull. “Where would you like your bags to be taken?” Sherlock nodded toward his room, and a short line of energetic people carrying reusable totes entered. In 20 minutes, they managed to unload all of Sherlock’s clothing into the empty wardrobe and dresser, filled the guest bathroom with his products, and stowed boxes of his books and equipment in one of the spare bedrooms, setting up collapsible tables to house everything else until Sherlock had the inclination to use any of it. Obviously, Mycroft had ordered his people to retrieve _all_ his belongings from Baker Street, and though it made him tear up once more, Sherlock was grateful. He’d never have to face John if he didn’t want to, and he most certainly did not want to. _He’d given John everything, and for nought._

At 4 PM, his mobile rang with Mycroft’s signature ringtone of Queen’s _Fat Bottom Girls_. John had chosen it on a lark, and Sherlock made a mental note to change it to something more dignified right after the call. “Yes?”

“Doctor Watson has invited himself to the _Diogenes Club_. He’s currently in the visitor’s room, angry, and demanding to speak to you.” Mycroft sounded cold. He was deeply annoyed, and Sherlock felt a fresh wave of gratitude bloom inside him. _Mycroft and Lestrade loved him, at least_.

“He has a girlfriend to speak to. Let him call her.” Sherlock was in no mood to be reasonable or accommodating with John Watson.

“Doctor Watson insists that he has not been unfaithful, that you’ve made unsubstantiated suppositions, that there’s been a misunderstanding, and that he’s sick to death of trying to explain this.” Mycroft sounded as if he were reading off a list.

Doubt filled him once more and he intensely disliked the feel of it. He forced out the words, wincing at the notes in his voice that betrayed his feelings to his brother, “_Did_ I misunderstand, brother mine?” _Had he? Mycroft would know._ “John has been texting this woman dozens of times a day for weeks now. They went to _Angelo’s_ together. You saw the picture! He has _never_ mentioned that he is spending face-to-face time with her, not ever. When I asked him how far things had gotten, he looked like he would rather swallow his own tongue than answer me, and the guilt couldn’t be clearer. He’s been having an affair. He has stated that I have no say in what he does with whom, that he could _be with_ other people if he wanted to, those were his exact words. We had never discussed exclusivity between us, I foolishly assumed it. I cannot say for certain how intimate their dalliance has been, but if you examine his blog, you can see that she has quite jubilantly taken my place without hesitation.”

There was a moment of silence as Mycroft checked these facts on his computer. “I see.” His tone was all the damning evidence Sherlock needed to know that he was correct in his assessment. “I’m...I’m so sorry, Sherlock.”

“Don’t be. You have nothing to be sorry about. This is all my own fault. _Caring is not an advantage._ You tried to tell me, and I would not listen. If I had, perhaps...” Sherlock stopped himself there. _If he hadn’t fallen so tragically in love with John Watson, none of this would have happened._ “I thought I knew him, Mycroft. I trusted him. I believed...” _in us_. He couldn’t say the last two words. _It sounded ridiculous, now._

“I am _so_ very sorry, little brother.” Mycroft sounded sincere. Unspoken was _the threat_. If Sherlock gave the word, Mycroft would dig and dig and dig until every single fact about Lisa had been uncovered. He would use all his connections to subtly destroy her life and the life of John Watson. Sherlock had no feelings about that. He couldn’t ask, not right now. His emotions seemed to be used up, just then, he was empty of everything. _John had cheated on him and had let Sherlock leave him without a word of protest, and only angry texts as a reminder of how unloved he was, and how little John had respected what had been between them. _There was nothing left to say, so Mycroft ended the call.

Sherlock went for a walk. Mycroft’s house was in a very pleasant neighbourhood, and though there was no park close by, the gardens of the fine houses surrounding him were soothing and well-maintained. He got a coffee at an upscale kiosk near a small shopping area and drank it as he continued to stroll. Sherlock stopped himself from purchasing cigarettes. He’d been a full year off of them and patches, too. _It would be a waste of all that effort to backslide now, especially on _John Watson’s_ behalf. Sherlock’s lungs deserved better than that_.

After several hours, Sherlock finally felt tired enough that he thought he might able to rest. He tapped out his current location to Anthea, and a short time later, a discrete black car parked near him, ready to bring him back to his current home. Anthea was there, a stack of files in one arm, and her mobile in her free hand, “Mr Holmes would like you to know that Detective Inspector Lestrade was called in to remove Doctor Watson from the _Diogenes_ club. Upon arriving, DI Lestrade proceeded to assault Doctor Watson by way of one solid blow to his upper nasal cartilage. I imagine the doctor will have a substantially increased snore after this. The DI is very good, he stopped short of actually breaking it. He instead arrested Doctor Watson for trespassing since he is not a member of the _Diogenes_, and my most recent information states that he is still incarcerated, though he has been given medical treatment.”

Sherlock was astonished. _Lestrade had almost broken John’s nose? _“He did all that, why?”

Anthea smiled gently, “I imagine it’s because he was your friend first and he’s a bit protective of you, after everything. DI Lestrade is a man with a rather stern personal code.”

Sherlock blinked because he was having difficulty processing the fact that...Greg...had not only broken John’s nose on his behalf but that he’d followed through and thrown John in jail. “Is that why my brother...”

“Mr Holmes is a man of highly discerning taste,” her tone was sharp and very nearly reproachful, “If there were a comment to be made in this regard, it should be restricted to that.”

Sherlock’s head was spinning a bit, but he took her advice. _If Mycroft was to take a lover, then Gregory Lestrade was far from the worst choice to make_. Distantly, Sherlock could see the appeal. Both men represented different styles of power, and both men wielded that power with competence. Neither was afraid of a challenge, and both lived very complicated lives. They were well-matched, so despite his personal heartache, Sherlock silently wished his brother well. “I’m tired.”

“Yes, sir.” Without further conversation, Anthea brought him back to Mycroft’s. Once there, Sherlock had a small bite to eat, a large glass of milk, and made himself ready for bed, though it was too early in the day. He wasn’t tired, but he knew the shock of the breakup had not yet worn off, and that he would be better equipped to deal with things if he allowed his transport to just rest. He missed John’s warmth, his softness, his steady presence. Sherlock’s bed was cold and empty, and he was lonely enough to bring his skull to bed with him, curling around it as he made himself drift off to sleep.

Lestrade was at breakfast the next day, and he was relentlessly cheerful. Carelessly, he bussed Mycroft noisily on the cheek before setting a large plate of fried food down in front of Sherlock, “Eat up, big day.” Sherlock didn’t feel like eating, but then, he never did when he was depressed. Still, Gregory had punched John on his behalf, so gamely, Sherlock managed to find room in his tummy for a generous percentage of what had been offered. Lestrade looked proud and Mycroft looked grateful. “Go on, wash up. Once you’ve showered and dressed, we can go.”

Sherlock asked no questions. He felt sick and listless, much like he had after detox, but did as he was told, carefully grooming himself so that his best face would be showing to the viewing public. _No one was going to see how John Watson had shredded him so savagely that he was still bleeding internally. After_ relieving himself, and washing his hands, Sherlock decided to shave and to even dab a bit of aftershave on, though he didn’t normally. He met Lestrade in the foyer, “What now?”

“Case.” Lestrade looked determined. Sherlock just followed him to his panda, climbed in the passenger side without protest, and sat silently for the drive. Lestrade wasn’t put off at all, “This one just came up. Sounds complicated. Two partial bodies were found, enough pieces to make one whole person but not enough to make up the person that the parts came from. All of it was found inside a sealed compound. Records state that the building has been sealed for months. If that’s so, then these body parts should have decayed long since. There’s no evidence that they’ve been there longer than a day, but the time locks on the entrances have not been reset since the summer.”

_Well, that did sound intriguing._ Lestrade handed Sherlock his mobile and let the sleuth examine all the photos that Anderson had forwarded. The forensics technicians’ skills had vastly improved in the last few years, and while there was still plenty of room for further improvement, there were still many good details in each shot. Sherlock silently approved, and rewarded Anderson by not complaining about the few mistakes he had noted. “Can we see the site?”

“On our way now.” Sherlock was grateful that Lestrade understood his needs so well. Being alone right now was the worst choice Sherlock could make. Left to his own devices, he knew it would be only a matter of hours before he found a dealer, a den, and oblivion. “When did you get the call?”

“Didn’t. Mycroft handed it over. His people had been called in because one of the partials is a government employee that they’ve had their sights on. Here’s the file.” Greg fished out a file from the bag on the back seat. He didn’t look, driving with one hand on the steering wheel and his eyes glued to the road. “Said it was right up your street.”

It was. Sherlock was fascinated. He recognised the locking system. It was based on the ancient Bramah locks of centuries past, with very modern improvements. He diverted himself for the rest of the ride to consider how it might be possible to pick the theoretically unpickable locks that had sealed the entryways. “Someone must have a copy of the key,” he murmured to himself.

“That’s what Mycroft figured, but they only just caught this case before giving it to you. It’s all yours.” Lestrade looked proud and determined.

Sherlock was deeply touched all over again. _His brother had surrendered a high-value case for no better reason than he knew that his little brother might be distracted from his woes by it._ _DI Lestrade was utilizing his limited time to bring Sherlock to the case and would likely remain with him until it was solved._ They were keeping him busy in a way he found acceptable, and he was so grateful. No one mentioned John, either and, Sherlock was silently thankful. He couldn’t begin to process his thoughts about his ex-lover, it hurt far too much.

The case took ages. After allowing Sherlock to examine the body parts _in situ_, they were removed, and he was further allowed to comb the entire building for clues. He was slow and careful, ponderous compared to how he’d previously examined a scene. Sherlock didn’t trust his instincts, not anymore. He gathered evidence, and spoke his thoughts out loud, making someone else verify facts before he grudgingly tendered his hypothesis. _His deductions had failed him spectacularly. He couldn’t rely on what he’d once considered well-honed reactions to stimuli. He needed third-party verification_.

Anderson assisted, for once being silent as well as helpful. He provided evidence bags, logged them, and didn’t ask where John was. Donovan showed up after a few days, now available since the case she’d been working had been successfully concluded. She, too, was silent about John and, once more, Sherlock was grateful. He continued to live at Mycroft’s homes, moving from one to another as the whim took him, and after the first two weeks, had spread his possessions evenly among them. Mycroft never complained and seemed content knowing that his little brother was making a mess safely underfoot instead of self-destructing somewhere in private.

Sleep was difficult. Sherlock was lonely all the time. He’d shut his old mobile off and left it in the bathroom drawer of the first of Mycroft’s homes. He used a burner phone instead, and only had Mycroft’s, Lestrade’s, Anthea’s, Molly’s, and Mrs Hudson’s numbers programmed into it. He didn’t bother checking up on John, convinced that his ex was happily shagging the new person in his life and having a grand time of it. Sherlock’s sexual side had perished with his relationship. He didn’t even masturbate and never felt the need for orgasm. Just thinking about it made him queasy. All of that business had been fascinating when he’d been John’s lover, but any suggestion of it now made him think of the man who had broken him so completely, and he simply could not deal with it. He’d asked his brother and Lestrade to keep information about John to themselves. It wasn’t likely that John would leave them alone, he _was_ terribly stubborn, but Sherlock had to think of himself first.

Missing John seemed to be something that wasn’t abating. Sherlock missed him when he managed to sleep. He missed John during breakfasts. He pined for John when he worked on the case. He tried to notice other men, examining anyone who he was reasonably certain was single, just to see if he could maybe organise some rebound sex or some kind of dating activity that could help him expunge the helpless hopeless self-doubt that plagued him. It repulsed him, instead. He couldn’t even bring himself to manage to flirt, something he used to be able to do on-demand for a case. Bitterly, he had to accept that he would only ever love John Watson. Sometimes at night, Sherlock silently wept, unable to stop his tears because he loved John intensely and being apart from him was unbearable. There was a hole in his heart as deep and as wide as the _Marianas Trench_, and it was a marvel to him that he hadn’t died from heartbreak already.

Mycroft and Gregory tirelessly kept him going. When he finally solved the case (cloned key stolen from the singular possessor of it, love triangle gone bad), they procured a deformed body for him to slice and mount in panes of plexiglass as part of a touring anatomical display for students. It was soothing to simply follow procedures, to examine each detail with strict professionalism, and to not doubt what he was seeing or doing. After that, Molly secured Sherlock lab time at one of the universities so that he could obtain some advanced instruction on rare toxins. They allowed him to retain small samples for his personal collection. He made careful notes regarding the facts and organised them along with everything else on his website, _The Science of Deduction_. Mrs Hudson hand-delivered baskets of biscuits and scones regularly, chatting with Sherlock merrily, but carefully never referring to John, as per Sherlock’s request. It was both harder and easier to deal with things.

It was the worst possible luck that manifested one sunny afternoon. Sherlock was walking with Lestrade, Donovan, and Anderson, all of them rapidly going over the facts of their latest matter when they passed a partially full restaurant. Everyone had divided up the job of verifying Sherlock’s theories, and they were discussing where to go from there. There in the window seat sat John, and across the table from him was Lisa. She was smiling broadly and clutching John’s hand, her painted nails vivid as she gripped his fingers in hers. She patted it affectionately before withdrawing it and standing up to give John a very lingering kiss on his cheek. Just as she sat down, John looked up, his mouth dropping open as everyone he used to work with glared at him before closing up as a group and herding Sherlock away. Anderson sent John a two-fingered farewell that Donovan matched, all of them closing ranks about the silent and pale detective in front of them. The unstable shifting-ground feeling had returned in force, and all Sherlock could say was, “I’m...just...good-day.”

No one said a word as Sherlock left, case unsolved, and climbed into a taxi. He didn’t know where he wanted to be, so he just gave the driver all the money in his wallet and told him to drive until it was used up. Sherlock stared out the window, dry-eyed and heart-broken all over again. He turned his temporary mobile off and kept it off. Later, Sherlock directed the driver to leave him in a very particular neighbourhood, and without overthinking what he was doing, found a drug den.

“I just need a flop.” Sherlock scrounged his voluminous pockets and found twenty pounds. Handing it over, he followed the vague directions until he located an almost empty room. There were two people in it, but they were passed out cold, their faces tranquil and chemically peaceful. Sherlock was tempted, very tempted, but he restrained himself. The atmosphere here suited his mood, that was all. He wasn’t going to slip...not today, at any rate.

Sherlock stayed there for the entire night. When dawn came, he texted Mycroft, “I just needed to think. Nothing happened. Please send a car.”

He didn’t mind when Mycroft made him bare his inner arms for inspection. He was an ex-junkie, a relapse was always possible, especially now. When he was found to be clear of blemishes, Mycroft hugged him hard, “Little brother.”

“I’m trying, Myc,” Sherlock found his shoulders shaking as tears welled up. _He was so tired of crying. He was exhausted from the ache in his chest. He wished he could stop but neither his heart nor his tear ducts were listening to him_. “I’m trying so hard.”

“I know, my dearest, I know you are and you’re doing so well. I’m very proud of you.” Mycroft was taller than Sherlock, so it was very easy to put his head on his brother’s shoulder and weep. “Let it out, love, let it all out. I’m here. We’re here for you.”

Sherlock felt another pair of arms encircle him and knew that Lestrade was there. He wasn’t ashamed of his tears. He was hurt, _terribly_ hurt, and he wondered if the awful feeling would ever subside. It didn’t seem to be diminishing at all. He loved John Watson and he always would, he knew it. Leaving John had been the right choice, he knew that too, but the separation was destroying him piece at a time. Sherlock felt torn in two. He couldn’t go back to John, no matter how desperately he wanted to. There was no easy fix, no fix at all, nothing. It was just...over.

Later that morning, they received a visitor. Lestrade had made a large breakfast, most of which sat uneaten, and was therefore available to offer to his ex-landlady. “Oh, Sherlock!” Mrs Hudson hugged him tightly to her, “Eat up, love, and come home. I need you to come with me.”

“No.” Sherlock was resolute. _Life at 221 B Baker Street was over._

She smiled kindly at him, “Don’t be fussy, Sherlock, please? For me? I really need you to come back with me.”

“Why?” _What on earth could she need him back there for? All of his things had been removed. His contract was good for another three months, it couldn’t be rent she was after...unless... _“Has he moved out?”

“Best come with me, dearie.” Mrs Hudson just kept smiling gently and holding his hand. “Your brother and the Detective Inspector can come as well if you’d prefer.”

Sherlock wasn’t comforted by this idea and was extremely reluctant. “I don’t want to.”

“I know, Sherlock, but I’m asking anyway. Please, my dear, do me this favour?” She was smiling so tenderly, so earnestly.

Sherlock knew he could never say no to Mrs Hudson, not really. She had saved him so many times, more times than anyone but the two of them knew. More than one scar on his body had her stitches in them. More than one over-dose had been prevented from being fatal, because of her. His many brushes with self-induced starvation had been stymied, because of her. His relationship with Mycroft had been repaired, all because of her. “Must I?”

“Yes, dear, you must. Right now.” Mrs Hudson stood up, “Come on, boys. I’m not getting younger, you know.” By sheer force of personality, Mrs Hudson managed to make Sherlock get his Belstaff, and put on his shoes. The detective was followed by his brother, as well as Lestrade, and all of them were soon on the road, heading to central London and 221 B Baker Street.

Mrs Hudson kept her silence throughout the entire trip though Sherlock badgered her with questions. She simply smiled up at him and said nothing. Sherlock was annoyed. _It was bad enough that she was forcing him to go back to the scene of his greatest despair, but to not even give him a single hint as to why? _It was infuriating.

The trip seemed to take longer than it needed to but at the same time, the sight of his old home was more than he was prepared to dismiss. His emotions welled up, and Sherlock knew he was moments away from weeping like a child just from seeing the black lacquered door and the knocker that was still tilted to the side. His heart sank down to his toes, and he briefly contemplated simply dashing down the street before John’s taunting words came back to haunt him. _He would not run away. He was _not_ a child. He was a grown man, an adult, mature, collected, and _oozing_ self-control. Surely, whatever important thing that Mrs Hudson was insisting on wasn’t worth missing just because he’d rather shoot himself in the foot before stepping over the threshold into his old flat._ “Come along, dear.”

She led them right upstairs. Sherlock felt faint and nauseated once again. _John had let him walk right down these stairs and out of his life. This wallpaper had witnessed the most humiliating and painful moments of his life. This doorway was the liminal zone between what used to be and what existed now._ Sherlock was going to vomit. Instead, he managed to keep his balance though his head was spinning and followed his ex-landlady into the flat where all happiness had died.

John was there _and so was Lisa_. Sherlock couldn’t help himself, he looked all around the room. The spaces where his things once lived were still empty, but possibly not for long because her fashionable coat was tossed over what used to be his chair. There were boxes stacked all over the living room. A rolling suitcase with a glittering charm fastened to one of the zippers was sitting beside the tallest stack. _Was she moving in or was John moving out? Either way, why bother bringing Sherlock here? It wasn’t his concern, not anymore_. Sherlock spun on his heel and headed out the door, but Mrs Hudson caught his hand in a ferocious grip, “Stay here, young man.” His legs stopped moving as she delivered her iron threaded order, “Turn around.”

Slowly, Sherlock turned, and for the rest of his life, he would be grateful that both Gregory and Mycroft had their arms about his back, their solidarity firm and unshakeable. Lips pressed tight together, Sherlock managed to look directly at John and ignored Lisa. His ex-lover looked trim and more fit than ever. His stomach had lost that soft swell that John had been fighting with since he’d left the army. _Obviously hitting the gym for Lisa’s sake._ Sherlock was bitter. _John had never exercised for him._ He was wearing a suave new jumper, a gift from the woman by his side, no doubt. Sherlock hated it. John’s hair was longer, too, and swept off to the side. He looked horrifically dashing and handsome, and Sherlock nearly growled his discontent.

“Sherlock,” Lisa trilled, blindly happy as she swanned over, her hips wagging back and forth in gross exaggeration, “We finally have a chance to see each other face-to-face!” She was in front of him now, her lips puckered as she went for his cheek. Repulsed, Sherlock jerked back and nearly bashed Mycroft’s face with the back of his head. She tittered and stepped back, “Oops, I forgot, girls aren’t your area.”

“No. They are definitely John’s though, as you _well_ know.” Sherlock shot a fury filled glance in John’s direction before returning his baleful glare back to Lisa.

John looked angry and then upset but Lisa just laughed as if Sherlock had said the funniest thing she’d ever heard, “Oh, you! You’re everything I expected, and more.”

“I’m leaving.” Sherlock turned to go once more but for the second time, Mrs Hudson had his wrist in her startlingly firm grip. He whispered, “Please, I beg you, just let me go!”

“Sherlock, turn around.” Mrs Hudson’s voice was stern, “You won’t regret it, I swear.”

Truculently, Sherlock obeyed. Lisa was grinning as if the world was her oyster, and of course it was. _She had John and now she was witnessing Sherlock’s humiliation at her victory with her own two overly painted eyes. Why wouldn’t she be fucking happy?_ “Sherlock?” John sounded nervous.

“What?” Sherlock snapped, “I don’t need to be here, I’m going. John can just continue to fuck himself and her and anyone else he feels like _being_ with.”

Lisa gasped, “Oh my!”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and shrugged off Mrs Hudson’s hand angrily, “Let me go. I have no idea why you thought I’d be interested in this farce of a meeting.”

Sherlock forced himself past her and down the stairs. His eyes were burning, and he needed to get away before he cried right in front of his rival and John. _It was all so unfair._ Gasping for air, Sherlock took the stairs two at a time, recklessly rushing away before the first tear spilt. He made it to the front door and yanked it open but not before someone caught him up and shoved it closed, “Sherlock!” It was John. Humiliated and mortified, Sherlock could not keep his tears inside. Quietly, they ran down his cheek just as John made him turn around, “Oh, Sherlock.” He couldn’t look at John, not now when his world was destroyed all over again and the people who had killed him were dancing on his grave. John sounded horrified when he said, “Oh, _no_, please don’t cry, no, no, no.”

Sherlock felt his hands being drawn together, and to his utter shock, John was kissing his fingertips, and pressing Sherlock’s palms to his faintly stubble covered cheeks, “Why are you doing this to me?” Sherlock’s voice was thick and raspy.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock,” John looked woebegone and remorseful. “I handled everything so badly and made you suffer because you didn’t understand what I was doing. You didn’t have all the facts and I was too caught up with what I was trying to accomplish to notice until you disappeared. Then I threw petrol on the fire by losing my temper and not thinking about what I was saying to you and...I’m an arse, a fool, a wretch, and a complete idiot because I hurt you so much. I’m sorry, Sherlock, please, I’m sorry.”

“Keep your apologies, Watson. It’s far too late for that, now.” Sherlock angrily wiped away his tears and stood tall. “Good_bye_, John Watson. May our paths never cross again.”

Sherlock tried to walk away but John wouldn’t let him go, “No. I begged Mrs Hudson to bring you here so you could understand everything. You don’t have all the details. Please, Sherlock, please. Let me explain what is going on!”

“No.” Sherlock tried to get away, but John’s grip was extraordinarily ungiving.

John pleaded, “Please, Sherlock. I have something for you. You see, Lisa and I...”

Sherlock inhaled sharply and managed to twist his arm out of John’s grasp, though he would bruise for it. He was furious. “I don’t want anything that _the two of you_ have for me. It’s over, Watson. You’ve moved on with efficient ease so leave me out of whatever conscience motivated drivel you are attempting. I _loathe_ you so why don’t you just fuck off right back upstairs to your _cunt-du-jour_, and never be within spitting distance of me ever again.”

John looked ill, his face pale and grey, yet he was also determined, “I’m making a mess of this, all over again.”

“I don’t fucking _care_, Watson! I’m leaving.” Sherlock elbowed John in the chest, hard, shoving him aside to yank the door open.

“John?” Lisa trilled from the top of the stairs, “Things alright, love?”

_LOVE?_ Sherlock’s fingers curled into fists so tight he was barely able to yank the door shut behind him and ignored the yelp of pain coming from John. Apparently, his fingers had been in the jamb, but Sherlock wasn’t concerned. John’s fingers and the rest of his body weren’t his to care for. John had someone else calling him _love_ and being concerned for him. _Let Lisa bandage the doctor up_.

Sherlock’s thoughts were dark and violent as he strode away from 221 B Baker Street. He wasn’t expecting someone to come running up behind him and bloody well tackle him to the paving stones, banging his chin and scraping his cheek. Sherlock fought back with all the grace and fury of a startled cat, scratching, biting, punching, and kicking. “Stop it, you arse!”

_John?_ “Fuck _off_, John Watson.” Sherlock scrambled for his mobile after kicking John in the stomach, causing the soldier to gasp for air and go to his knees. Stabbing the keys, Sherlock shouted into it, “Police? I’m being assaulted. Help! I’m on Baker Street...”

He didn’t get further. John swatted the phone out of his hands, and it shattered on impact with the curb. John looked shocked at his own actions so Sherlock took advantage of his stillness to punch John as hard as he could in the jaw. The soldier was staggered, stumbling backwards, and Sherlock took off running, not looking where he was going, just desperate to get away from everything that hurt. There was a moment of white-hot searing agony, and then, Sherlock stopped feeling anything at all.

*

*

*

“Please, let him live. Please, please, please.” Someone was praying softly, their voice barely above a whisper, hoarse and quiet. _Male. Familiar?_ He couldn’t tell, his mind wasn’t clear right then. A steady beeping was speeding up and it seemed to be getting louder. Sherlock was coming around and he wished he wasn’t. He hurt everywhere, inside and out. His heart was as sore as his back, his head, his legs, and especially, his arms. He heard someone groaning in misery and eventually realized that it was him. “Sherlock? Sherlock?”

_Was there no surcease from pain? Why in blazes was John Watson here?_ There was only one thing to do so though it hurt wretchedly, he managed to make his voice work, though not very well, “Police! Someone? Help me, I was attacked. He’s here. He’s right here. He keeps hurting me.”

“Sherlock, you’re in the hospital. You were struck by a cab when you ran across the street.” John sounded odd, as if were crying and trying to talk at the same time but he was the very last person that was welcome to be present. Sherlock got his left eye to open in time to see John reaching for his hand. He jerked it away and regretting the motion immediately since it caused shockwaves of pure pain to run up his arm and across his chest. He cried out, his voice weak and thin. John stepped back, and he looked ill again. Sherlock turned his head away and closed his eye. _He wasn’t going to look at John or touch John ever again, not if he had his way_.

“Mycroft,” Sherlock demanded, “I want Mycroft.”

“He’s not here,” John began to explain as an extremely matronly nurse walked in. She exuded crisp no-nonsense practicality as she made her way directly to Sherlock’s side.

Sherlock opened his eye to seek her aid, “Nurse. Remove this vicious intruder and bring me my brother, _Mycroft Holmes_. John Watson should be in jail. _He’s_ the one who did this to me. Why has he not been arrested? Make him go! Now!”

The nurse was steely-eyed the moment Sherlock spoke and with charming speed, hauled John directly out of Sherlock’s room, calling security to drag him off as she did so. “There you go, pet, sorry you had to endure that. We’ll keep you safe, now. His name is on your emergency contacts, he’s the one who called the ambulance. We had no idea he was the culprit. The police will deal with him. You just rest, no one will bother you now.”

“My brother?”_ Did Mycroft know what had happened? Did he even realize that Sherlock had been in an accident?_

“I’ll go to the nursing station right away, pet, and we’ll find him, good?” Sherlock nodded tentatively and gave her Anthea’s number, “His assistant? Right, I’ll go now.”

Sherlock lay on his hospital bed and assessed himself. Gingerly, he tested each limb carefully and tried to sit up. The strain was universally intense and, at the moment, not possible, so Sherlock deduced that he’d be struck hard enough to render him unconscious and to over-strain his musculature in various locations, but that apart from bruising and swelling, he was essentially undamaged. He heaved a sigh of relief. He could probably get out of here after a single night of being carefully monitored. He lay there, miserable and alone for almost an hour before Mycroft rushed in looking harried, anxious, and worried, “Brother! What happened? You ran off and no one could reach you. I found the remains of your mobile on the street.”

“It was John. He came after me. We fought. I ran. Apparently I was struck by a taxi and brought here. John is still my emergency contact.” Sherlock suddenly knew he was losing control of his stomach, and Mycroft only had a moment to bring him the corner bin before Sherlock vomited up everything he’d ever eaten in the last month. “We’ll deal with him, Sherlock. I’m contacting Gregory right now.”

Mycroft tapped off an angry text and seconds later, his mobile rang, “Gregory? Yes. John Watson. Sherlock? He’s in front of me right now, in the emergency room, black and blue from head to toe thanks to the doctor. Yes. Immediately. Use any resource necessary. No. This cannot be tolerated, Gregory. My brother has been through far more than anybody ought to endure, and all for that..._person_.” Mycroft spat the last word out as if speaking the vilest insult he could imagine. “Thank you, my dear. Yes. Me too. Yes, tonight.”

“He’s going to arrest him?” Sherlock felt miserable. _Everything was so wrong now. How had it all gone so wretchedly wrong?_

Mycroft looked just as unhappy, “I believe so. Gregory has a team on it, they’re searching for Doctor Watson right now. It won’t be long. I believe the Duty Nurse ensured that the doctor was handed over to their security staff, and Anthea is currently following up on their procedures and determining where the Doctor has ended up.”

Sherlock lay there, and felt awful physically, mentally, and emotionally. Half a year ago he’d never envisioned himself being caught up in such an unenviable position, and now he thought back to all the cases of spousal abuse he’d come across and finally understood how easy it was to be harmed by someone you loved. He was getting off lucky, considering._ A few bruises and a broken heart, a small price compared to what some had paid for their love_. “What about her?”

“She has caused no trouble that we can find,” Mycroft hesitated.

“What is it?”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft sounded reluctant, “Lisa is married.”

“How is that relevant to me? It’s hardly the first time Watson contemplated the irrelevance of vows and honour.” Sherlock sneered as best he could. His face hurt, though, and his lip was swollen on one side so it came out as more of a lisp than anything.

“She’s married to a woman, Sherlock. Her spouse is a Mrs Amy Hoffman, of the _Infiniti Arms_ branch of _The Book List_ publishing house.” Mycroft was trying to make a point, but Sherlock wasn’t getting it at all.

“So? What of it? She’s cheating on her wife instead of her husband. It feels pretty much the same from my end of things.” Sherlock didn’t want to know a single thing about Lisa or her shell of a marriage.

“Sherlock, Lisa is a publisher, a rather good one.”

“What of it, Mycroft? What does it matter what the third party does for a living when the only part that matters to me is her fucking John practically in front of my face?” Sherlock was livid all over again.

“Tell me again what evidence you have of John’s indiscretion. I need to know everything you know if I am to pursue this to the fullest possible level.” Mycroft pulled up a chair and listened carefully as Sherlock explained how John had begun hiding something from him, and that his secret became more and more obvious. He went into detail regarding John’s reactions and physical presentations when Sherlock accused him of infidelity and reminded Mycroft that he’d ignored his mobile in favour of the cheap temporary one now in pieces. “I don’t know how much proof I’m supposed to provide before ending an unfaithful relationship, Mycroft. John was cheating on me, his body-language practically screams ‘strictly heterosexual’ whenever he’s around anyone female. He’s refused to tell anyone that we were together. He still insists he’s not gay to anyone who will listen. John Watson is...is...he’s not to be trusted.”

Mycroft was silent for several minutes, obviously lost in thought. When he spoke, he sounded cautious, “I believe that we need to speak to Doctor Watson. I have the feeling that we are missing some key facts. Further, I believe that you will never be able to put this behind you until we ask those questions and get those answers.”

Sherlock scowled mutinously. “No. I have no further wish to communicate with John Watson. He’s a liar and a cheat. He’s a brute and a villain. Look at me! He did _this_ to me, Mycroft! In the past several weeks has he explained anything clearly? All he’s done is insist that _I_ am wrong but never explains why _he_ is right! Why did he begin dating this person? Why did he take her to places that were special to him and I? Why did he choose to lie, choose to cheat, why? Why bother taking up with me if he had no intentions of being faithful. John knew me, or I thought he did. I cannot tolerate this. I won’t. I just...won’t. It’s all or nothing, Mycroft. Either my lover is mine alone, or I am alone. There are no half-measures, no in-betweens. It’s...I am who I am, brother. I’ve never sought out intimacy, you know I have not, and to discover that my lover has corrupted what was between us is...I cannot deal with it. I won’t. It’s over. I cannot love if I cannot trust.”

“I understand and agree, Sherlock. Nonetheless, I feel it is imperative that we interview Doctor Watson and see what we can learn. If it truly bothers you so much, then I will undertake this task personally.” Sherlock felt his lower lip tremble and his eyes burn. He was going to cry again, and he didn’t want Mycroft to see him do so. “You need rest, brother mine. I will do what needs to be done and will inform you of the results at a later time.”

Mycroft left. Sherlock lay there listening to his heart monitor, and to the subdued sounds of the emergency ward. All the curtains were drawn, and he couldn’t see who the other patients were, but he could hear breathing, and occasionally, weeping. Loved ones. He didn’t have any right now, not until Mycroft came back. Sherlock didn’t even want to see Mrs Hudson because in his mind, she had sided with John, and that decision had led to this. _If she hadn’t come around, he never would have gone back to Baker Street and been hurt so badly._ Her betrayal hurt nearly as much as John’s did.

A long time went by before a nurse came by with a tray of soft foods for him to eat, and a pill to soothe his frazzled nerves. He didn’t want any of it but recognised that his good behaviour would go a long way toward his being released as soon as a doctor came and reviewed his file. Another hour went by before someone with authority came by, “Mister Holmes?”

The doctor was named Douglas Coates, and he was plump, cheerful, and very competent. He reminded Sherlock of Mike Stamford if the good doctor went in for walrus moustaches and swoopy waxed hair. Doctor Coates looked like he’d been plucked out of an earlier era and stuffed into a slightly too small lab-coat. Sherlock liked him, “Well, lad, you're in a bit of pain, aren’t you? Good thing that cab was only going fast enough to rattle your cage a bit. Don’t worry, a tablet or two, and you’ll be right as rain. We’ll keep an eye on your bruises, and the swelling from the sprains should be mostly gone by as early as tomorrow. You came close to having a concussion, but apart from some passing wooziness, you’re all in one piece. There’s no real reason to keep you longer than tonight so let’s plan on a morning visit and see about letting you go home.”

Sherlock nodded carefully, “I need to change my documentation to remove John Hamish Watson from my emergency contacts. He is to be replaced with my older brother, Mycroft Holmes.”

The doctor made a note, “I’ll let the administration know, and I’ll stop by the nursing station to tell the Head Nurse.”

“Thank you, doctor.” With that, Doctor Coates took himself off to complete his rounds. A short time later, an intern and a nurse moved Sherlock to a small room, freeing up the emergency bed for someone else. It was quiet and lonely. No one came to see him, but who was there left who would want to? Mycroft was busy. Lestrade was busy. Sherlock had no other friends. Molly Hooper had grown apart after the fiasco with Mary, he hadn’t spoken to her since then. He had people he worked with professionally, people who owed him favours, but no one any longer that he could rely on to be with him during a time like this. It was dismaying. With nothing better to do, Sherlock allowed himself to fall asleep.

He woke early the next morning when the duty nurse came to check on him. With a bright and cheery attitude, she solemnly informed him that Doctor Coates would be there presently and that he was likely to be released. Both of his eyes were opened today, so he resolved to be patient. He just wanted to go. “My clothing?”

She looked sympathetic, “Oh, I’m sorry, dear, they were cut off you in emergency. I can arrange for you to...”

Sherlock cut her off, “Please inform my brother of my predicament. He will send someone with clothing for me.” She blushed, and nodded, leaving just as Doctor Coates arrived, “Good morning.”

“Hello!” Doctor Coates checked his charts once more, then checked Sherlock himself, taking his blood-pressure, examining his bruises, and inspecting his limbs, “Let’s get you standing, then, shall we?”

Sherlock was able to totter to the loo on his own, and with relief, evacuated his bowel and bladder in turn. He ached but it wasn’t impossible to move about. The doctor agreed, and with very little argument, wrote Sherlock a script for pain relievers, and signed him out. Anthea arrived moments later bearing a garment bag. Inside was a brand-new suit from a tailor that kept their measurements on hand. Mycroft must have ordered him a new suit as a gift when he moved away from Baker Street. She waited discretely in the hallway while the nurse helped him dress, then drove him slowly back to his brother. Sherlock scowled, “Why didn’t you come to the hospital?”

“There is something you must see.” Mycroft didn’t waste time, simply striding away from the foyer and toward his home office. Sherlock painfully made his way after him. He wasn’t exactly in agony, but he was stiff all over. His muscles still weren’t working smoothly, and so his brother swiftly outpaced him. The door to his office was open, and at first, Sherlock was confused as to why his brother had the same boxes in his office as John had had back at the flat. “Look inside.”

Sherlock didn’t want to. He felt like he was being trapped like a cage had sprung up around him unawares, and there was nowhere to go. Reluctantly, Sherlock opened the folded top of the box closest to him. It was filled with books, the covers of which seemed to match the wallpaper at 221 B Baker Street but with his profile picked out in a silhouette in the centre of each arrangement. In the middle was a large bold title picked out in rich gold lettering, ‘_The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes’_ and at the very bottom, nearly hidden in the pattern, was the name _Captain J.H. Watson, M.D_. “What is this?”

“A printed collection of your cases; an expanded rewrite of all of John’s blog posts. He’s had his notes transcribed and has turned the blog into a volume of your successes.” Sherlock didn’t know what to say. Stricken, he slowly opened the book and turned the pages. John had included photographs. He recognized many of them, they’d been posted online. Their cases were there, all carefully arranged in chronological order. Sherlock’s eyes grew blurry and they stung in a new kind of way, “He’s been working on this for some time, apparently.”

“Why didn’t he just tell me?” Sherlock put the book back. He was reeling, his emotions swirling in a dizzying storm, unsettled and confusing, “Why did he let this go on like this?”

Mycroft’s eyes were troubled, “Perhaps it’s because we never gave him a chance.”

Sherlock felt ill all over again, only this time, remorse was what was churning his stomach. “No, we did not.” He couldn’t collect his thoughts. Everything was chaotic as the new information he’d just gained clashed severely with what he’d thought he’d known for fact, re-colouring the past few weeks in shades that did him no favours. _He’d been horrid to John. He had distrusted his lover intensely. He’d cut John off at every turn and had ignored his pleas. Sherlock had hurt himself and John at the same time, all because of his pride._ “What do I do?”

“Talk to him. Work things out.” Mycroft sighed and sounded exhausted. “I judged him as harshly as you did, brother mine, so let us give him the chance now that we did not then.”

“He will hate me. After all this time, how I walked away so completely...he will hate me.” _Why wouldn’t he? John had every reason under the sun to loathe Sherlock_.

“I don’t hate you.”

Sherlock spun around, stunned. John was standing at the entrance of the office. He looked as tired as Mycroft sounded, the dark circles beneath his eyes blatant testimony of his unhappiness. With the turmoil of the last few weeks undergoing a mental reset, Sherlock had very few resources left in which to construct anything clever to say. Instead, he invested everything he was feeling into the most important sound of all, “John.”

“Sherlock.” The soldier didn’t wait. He rapidly made his way to Sherlock as if it were unthinkable to be away from him, no matter the circumstance. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I wanted to surprise you. I worked so hard to keep this a surprise and it wasn’t until after everything went to shit that I looked back and saw what an absolute tit I was to do things the way I did them. I’d never have believed me either if it had been the other way around. What you went through because of how...I’m _so_ sorry, Sherlock. Please, is there any way in the world I can convince you to forgive me? I’ll do anything, anything at all, name it. I’m sorry, sweetheart, I’m so sorry for making you go through all of this.”

Sherlock didn’t know how to respond. Too many huge shifts were happening in an area where he was barely competent. He didn’t know how to identify his emotions, never mind say words that defined them. He responded once more in the only way he could, “John.”

John had one of his odd expressions on, one of the ones where he was emoting multiple things simultaneously. Sherlock had no idea how he did it, but his face-journeys never failed to captivate him, “I _never_ meant to make it look like I was cheating on you, and if I’d paused for even a minute after you began to doubt me instead of reacting like a prideful cretin, I would have seriously re-thought how to react to your reaction. Instead, I made something bad even worse because I made you feel like someone who wasn’t worth being honest and true to, and that’s the very last feeling I want you to have. I’m yours, Sherlock, only yours. There’s no one in the world like you, you can’t be replaced or forgotten. I love you so bloody much, there isn’t room in my heart for anyone but you. I can’t even imagine laying a finger on anyone in an intimate way, not unless it’s you. You’re my entire world, Sherlock, my whole universe.”

“John?” Sherlock couldn’t speak. He was completely incapable. He felt wooden and almost detached from his transport. Distantly he noticed that Mycroft had discretely exited, leaving he and John alone together. “John!” Sherlock pulled his love close to his chest and wrapped his arms around him, burying his face in John’s hair and breathing him in. Two strong arms returned his embrace, and Sherlock realized that he was crying once more. This time it was relief and happiness, but he still needed to gasp for air and use his fingers to wipe the tears away, though many fell and disappeared into John’s hair. _Everything felt real once more. The nightmare was over. John loved him. He hadn’t betrayed Sherlock. It had all been a misunderstanding. They weren’t over._ “John.”

“I _love_ you, Sherlock. I missed you so much. I’m sorry, sweetheart. I love _you_, okay? _I love you.”_ John was holding him up, his strong arms keeping Sherlock tight against, him, his dear head tucked beneath Sherlock’s chin.

“I was horrible to you.” Sherlock was appalled with himself, “I didn’t verify anything. I only checked enough to know that you were hiding something from me and presumed the rest. John!”

“No, don’t blame yourself one bit. It was all my fault. I knew damn well you were insecure in our relationship,” John seemed frustrated, and gripped his own hair with both hands for a moment before moving them to cup Sherlock’s face, “This whole project began because I wanted to show you how much I loved you, to give you tangible proof that I’d always be there with you, to tell the entire world how amazing you are, and how incredibly lucky I am to even know you. That I’m privileged to love you, to share your life...”

John looked penitent now, “I was _so_ committed to surprising you with a finished result that I drove you away rather than just fucking admit that I was writing a book about you. Lisa is my publisher. We’ve been meeting so her photographer could take shots of all the places that were special to the two of us. We’ve been all over London as a group. She was tracking our daily activities, _kind of a day in the life _sort of snapshot of how we live, that’s why I was texting so much. _That’s_ what I wasn’t telling you...not..._other_ things. That day, that afternoon when all of you saw us through the window...Lisa had just negotiated a huge contract regarding distribution and had just given me first commission cheque. She kissed my cheek to congratulate me. I couldn’t believe that you came by the one time she ever kissed me!”

“That was rather unfortunate,” Sherlock murmured. That had been one of the more miserable moments in the last few weeks, “I should never have doubted you.”

John looked solemn now and moved his arms back down to hold Sherlock’s waist. “No, you have every right to doubt me. What you said, you weren’t wrong.” John hung his head and his entire body seemed to radiate a bone-deep shame, “I _was_ going to cheat on Mary. That it was Eurus I was thinking about, even though I didn’t know it was her, doesn’t matter. It could have been anyone, your point still stands. I was a married man and I wasn’t being coerced into behaving as I did. I wanted to step out on my wife. I made a promise to her, a vow, and it shouldn’t matter how she behaved or how she acted; my vow and my word are _mine_ to uphold. If I couldn’t keep a promise that I made out loud in front of everyone I knew, how could you ever expect me to keep a promise I never even made to you or hinted at to our mutuals?”

Sherlock felt that horrible creeping doubt again and it frightened him, “What are you saying, John?” _Was John saying goodbye? Was that why he was bringing this up? Was he going to excuse himself from their relationship because of this?_ Sherlock grew instantly queasy. He couldn’t bring himself to even think of John ending it with him now, not just when they were fixing what had already happened. _This couldn’t be it?_ “Be very clear.”

John looked as serious as Sherlock had ever witnessed him being. The words that followed stunned the detective right to his core, “I _want_ to make that promise, a _better_ promise, in front of anyone you see fit to witness it. If you’d have me, Sherlock, I’d marry you right here and now, and announce it to the entire planet.”

“Marry me?” Sherlock was stupefied. He was so unsettled by the dramatic change in their situation that his brain was behaving in a sub-optimal way. It kept focusing on the set of John’s lips, the way the second to the top button of John’s coat was only half-done, to how the odour in the air was reminiscent of expensive scotch and rare cigars. _Mycroft was entertaining a smoker. Lestrade, of course._ Sherlock blinked and tried to focus once more but he was not able. His knees were wobbly and he finally understood that John was doing his best to assist Sherlock in sitting down. “Did you just ask me if I wanted to _marry_ you?”

John fidgeted, “Sort of...yes, but...bloody hell, I’m making a mess of this, too.” John got down on one knee and took Sherlock’s hands between his, “William Sherlock Scott Holmes, would you do me the honour and privilege of allowing me to call myself your husband, to swear in front of anyone you wish that I will always be a true and faithful partner, and to allow me the chance to try and make you happy for the rest of our lives?”

Sherlock could not get his thoughts organised. It was a mess; his mind palace was completely disorganised. “Lestrade broke your nose on my behalf.”

“Is that a no?”

Sherlock felt his mouth hanging open, but he wasn’t in control of his transport any more than he was in control of his mind palace, “Mycroft made sure you were arrested and kept in custody for as long as possible.”

John was always a mystery because he was smiling fondly up at Sherlock, not at all upset or uncertain looking, not anymore, “They love you, but not as much as I do. So? Will you marry me, Sherlock, and let me wear your ring so that anyone who sees me knows that I’m good and taken?”

That sank in. The primal possessive part of Sherlock’s mind suddenly took over, and he nearly growled out his assent, “Yes. Yes, I will.” _John was HIS. Everyone would know it._ The dark creature inside his mind was gloating and rubbing its incorporeal hands together gleefully. _John was his._ Sherlock came back to himself the moment John’s mouth covered his. _They were kissing._ After all these weeks of emotional upheaval, Sherlock felt as if celestial beings were singing all around him. His body felt super-charged with positive energy as he feasted on John’s presence once again. _This was right. The world was right once again. Everything was possible, now._ “I love you, John.” _The words weren’t so very hard to say, after all._

“I know you do, my darling man. Everything you did, everything you endured, all of it was because you loved me. I never doubted that for a moment. I am so sorry that I made it so that you doubted yourself, though. I’ll always regret that. I’m so so sorry, Sherlock.” John stepped forward, pressing their bodies together, “This was a case of both of us being stubborn, but mostly me also being stubborn _and_ stupid. I was absolutely focused on keeping the book a secret. I don’t know why I hung onto that goal so hard, but I guess it was because you’re the person I love most in the world and you see everything...I wanted so much to be able to hide from you just so I could give you this thing I spent so long making. I’ve been re-writing our cases for ages now,” he paused, “I started back when I thought you were dead. I read and re-read our notes so many times, just reliving the days where I was happy and content with life, and just so in love with you. I didn’t think I would feel that way again about anyone, and I haven’t.”

Sherlock didn’t know how to respond to that, either. The doubt had been one of the crueller aspects of their separation. John _was_ faithful to him and had _remained_ faithful even though Sherlock had left him under a cloud of suspicion and anger. There was one point he felt the need to mention, “You were married once already. It didn’t go well.”

John crumpled, “Yes. Yes, I got married even though it was wrong of me to do so, I can see that now. Back then, though, Mary...god how she manipulated everything...the things she said, her timing was just...no, I can’t put all of it on her. I made my choices, even though the reasons for them were weak. I did it to myself because...” John kept trailing off as he floundered for words to explain, “There were so many factors and I was too stupid, too blind, and too stubborn to even try to see them. I blinded myself, trying to make a martyr of myself because of how hurt I’d been while I thought you were dead. I wanted you to hurt too, and I never allowed myself to think about everything you had already suffered. I know what kind of man I am now, and it’s not a good one. I’m a terrible person, you should never trust me, and you should definitely never marry me, but I want you to, desperately. Give me once more chance, I’m begging you, give me the chance to try and make you happy. Please, just let me try.”

Sherlock nodded and felt shaky. John held his hand and slowly drew him into the hallway, allowing Sherlock to direct him to his temporary bedroom. John cast a quick look around at the mess he found there, and Sherlock was surprised to find that his soldier looked teary and sentimental, “You really know how to leave an impression on a place. I’ve actually missed this.”

“My laundry on the floor?”

John laughed brokenly, “Yeah, actually.” He smiled up at Sherlock, “You’re a total mess but you’re _my_ mess, and I’ve been completely undone without you.” John helped Sherlock out of his suit jacket and sat him on the edge of his bed. The doctor then puttered around the room, scooping laundry into its basket, and once he’d located clean pyjamas, John helped Sherlock change into them and then tucked the detective under his big quilt as if he were an invalid, “Close your eyes and rest for a few minutes while I make us some tea.”

Sherlock wasn’t remotely sleepy but obeyed, shutting his eyes and listening to John walk through Mycroft’s rooms. He listened to the distant noise of water being poured, the snap of the electric kettle being activated, and drifted as he processed everything that had changed. To his surprise, he dozed off and woke sometime later, John lying next to him, and a fragrant pot of now cool tea on the night table, “I didn’t mean to sleep.”

John smiled and cuddled close, holding Sherlock tightly with one arm. It felt heavenly and Sherlock melted into the embrace, boneless and unresisting. “You’re exhausted, love. It’s been a crap few weeks for both of us.”

Sherlock stared up at John and the words fell out of his mouth without prompting, “I want to go home.”

John smiled down at him, his ever-expressive face dancing between delight and a failed attempt at appearing calm, “Yeah?”

“Yes.” Sherlock sat up and allowed John to help him out of bed, “Now.”

“Alright then,” John was both agreeable as well as helpful. It took the better part of an hour but John managed to wrangle all of Sherlock’s scatter possessions into his room, and packed a large bag with his clothes and essentials, “Is that everything?”

Sherlock glanced around, “Mycroft will send the rest later.” John arranged for a taxi to pick them up and sat right next to Sherlock during the entire ride, their hands tangled together. Sherlock felt a wave of peace wash over him as they approached their street. _Home_. John helped him out of the cab, unlocked the door, and escorted Sherlock upstairs.

The flat looked wrong. There were huge swathes of emptiness, the walls blank, the shelves unoccupied. John hadn’t made a single attempt to fill the void he’d left behind when he had fled to his brother’s houses. “You left it all as it was.”

“I couldn’t change anything. How could I? This is _our_ home; those spaces are for _your_ things. That’s where your stuff ought to be.” John looked disconcerted, “Sherlock...”

Sherlock didn’t want to think of what had happened. He was still weary, and he felt fragile, “Not now, John. Everything will come back, we’ll put it all back, and we can go from there.” He felt the need to repopulate the flat with his possessions, but it wasn’t immediate.

John nodded, his face serious, “I want to make it right, somehow.”

“You will.” Sherlock felt exhaustion pulling at him. His body wasn’t tired but his heart and mind were. He could sleep for days. “I need to rest some more.”

“Of course, love.” John nervously followed Sherlock to his bedroom and didn’t seem to know what to do with himself. “Should I..?” John jerked a thumb toward the living room, indicating his willingness to sleep on the sofa.

That just wasn’t on. “_We_ need to rest,” Sherlock said firmly. He didn’t care that it was barely one in the afternoon. He was home after weeks of being away, lost and devastated. He needed to reconnect to 221 B Baker Street and John, “Pyjamas.”

Dutifully, John dug out Sherlock’s sleepwear and obligingly changed into his own, fetching his clothes from upstairs. Sherlock frowned at that. John had essentially moved into Sherlock’s room, and had kept his belongings mixed in with his lover’s. Sherlock pulled open the wardrobe and then the dresser drawers. Both were empty. “Tomorrow we will put everything back where it belongs.”

“Okay.” John was smiling a bit now and seemed to relax a bit more, “So, sleep?”

Sherlock didn’t answer him with words. He folded back the covers, enjoying the crisp clean smell that arose. He lay down and pressed his nose to his pillow. It smelled of detergent and fabric softener, but also faintly of himself and of John. There was nothing else there and it made Sherlock feel good to have proof that John had not shared his bed with anyone at all, “Come here.”

Sherlock felt John’s body fit against his and marvelled that he’d survived for so many days in a row without it. How? John was so perfect, so compact and strong, so warm and inviting. Sherlock snuggled close, inhaling deeply to saturate himself in the scent of the man he’d missed so deeply, “I love you.”

John made a sound that was almost heartbroken, and he clutched at Sherlock’s arm, “I love you too, Sherlock, I’ve missed you so very much.”

Their kiss was new and old at the same time. Sherlock knew exactly how John’s mouth fit against his, how sweet it was, how sensual it could be, and yet, this was something new, something deeper than what had existed before and he could feel it down to his bones that this was forever. Their hands roamed as they rutted slowly against each other, and peeled away the few items of fabric between them until they were skin-to-skin at last. Sherlock glutted himself on John, tasting him all over, rediscovering everything he hadn’t been able to touch for weeks, “My beautiful soldier.”

They rarely did it this way but John eagerly rolled to his belly and lifted his hips invitingly. Sherlock took him up on it, ravenous for more. Somewhere they’d graduated from tender healing and slipped into feral need. Sherlock groaned at the feast laid out beneath him and mouthed his way down John’s spine until he reached those sweet pert handfuls of arse that tempted him so ardently. With reverence that he showed nowhere else, Sherlock used his long fingers to push them apart enough to reveal John’s most intimate entrance. Exposed, Sherlock couldn’t stop himself from leaning over and using his tongue to wring moan after moan from his lover.

This was right. This was how love should be made. Sherlock was hungry and desperate but not lost to his senses, not yet at least, so he prepared John carefully, enjoying the hot press of John’s inner passage against his fingers, liberally spreading lubricant everywhere they would need it until he could hold back no longer and pressed his cock against John’s crease, sliding it through the slick and moaning as he saw how deeply inside John he could go before he was fully buried. He needed to feel it, now, so carefully, Sherlock used one hand to press his cockhead to John’s hole, glorying in the intense sensation entrance brought.

John was so tight, so smooth inside, so warm. Sherlock kept pushing until his not inconsiderable length had been swallowed down to the root. John was shaking a bit, his arse clenching as he reared back reflexively, rocking himself on Sherlock’s cock in little jerks. Sherlock held onto John’s waist and bucked forward, wringing an eager gasp from the small man beneath him, and that was all it took for Sherlock to lose control.

Sherlock fucked John with powerful strokes, each thrust hard enough to make John’s arse shake upon impact and it drove Sherlock wild. He wanted to be inside John forever or have John inside of him, he didn’t care. He needed this connexion, needed this feeling. He wanted to come urgently but at the same time, he never wanted this session to end so he drew it out, teasing them both by slowing his pace or quickening it, by drawing himself out carefully before plunging back in again. Sherlock writhed above John, twisting his hips and sinking in deeply, sometimes making hasty little stabs inward before switching to long gliding thrusts that made them both tremble.

Forgotten were strained muscles and still vibrant bruises. Forgotten were hurt feelings and the sense of emptiness. There was no doubt, no fear. There was just the two of them and the glorious orgasm that was overtaking them both. Sherlock lay on John’s back and drove himself quick and deep, knowing what John loved about being fucked, biting at the back of his neck and pinning his wrists above his head so that John knew he was being taken. Sherlock could feel John grow tense but when he throbbed inside, Sherlock had no idea that the sensation that it would trigger in him would be so powerful. Without meaning to, Sherlock began to come inside of John just as John shouted his release into the mattress, his body quivering as his arse milked the seed right out of Sherlock cock with every pulse. Sherlock hadn’t had an orgasm in so long that he was convinced this one would destroy him with its power. The world went static as he fell into bliss.

*

*

*

Weeks had passed, and Sherlock was anxious again. He didn't need to be, why, cases practically solved themselves these days, and at the speed of light too as Sherlock spat out his deductions rapidly, barely slowing enough for anyone to follow. _What was John saying to her?_ Peering through the crack between door and frame, Sherlock tried to deduce the smartly dressed person who was so deeply engaged in conversation with John. He was smiling, laughing a bit, and Sherlock burned with the need to know exactly what was going on between the two of them. _Should they be smiling and chatting with one another? Now?_

“What’s going on?” DI Lestrade was at Sherlock’s shoulder, peering through the same space and eyeing John suspiciously, “Does someone need a talking to?”

Sherlock stepped back, self-consciously smoothing down the front of his firmly buttoned-up jacket. It was new, and felt a bit odd because of it, even though it had been tailored at one of the finest discrete men's clothiers in London, “Uncertain.”

“Well, let me know if John’s nose needs breaking all the way, you know I’m up for it.” Greg looked stern, that is until the music began to play and then he was all business, “Come on, that’s us.”

Sherlock was dry-mouthed and nervous and would never ever admit that Lestrade had to push-start him to get him walking. Holding himself stiffly upright, he proceeded forward carefully. It wouldn’t do to make a careless mistake. The music swelled and crested just as he reached John who had stopped speaking the moment Sherlock had come into view. It was very gratifying to witness the dumbstruck expression on his face. “Begin,” ordered Sherlock.

The woman smiled genially at him and began to speak, “Dearly beloved...”

**Author's Note:**

> My time continues to be scarce so while I love and adore any and all comments and wallow in them like the lifesource they are, I will regrettably not be able to answer back.


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